Classic Poem

With right good will I'll sail to the land of MacLeod, steering a course for that man of great worth.
It is right that I shall know my way in MacLeod's domain, if hard weather repulse me not.
Westward I'll voyage through the lowering of the storms, to the tower to which tenantry resort,
Since I have heard the precious news and true, that hath banished the pang in my breast.
MacLeod I shall behold, that youth high in esteem, comely of aspect and rich in virtues;
Sprung from Olgar of sword-blades, that would raise satin pennons to mast—MacLeods are of that haughty race!
Tuneful airs shall rise in honour of the warriors, right handy in time of hardihood are they;
The stern young warriors that when weapons are bared have won them a name renowned.
The targe-bearing race of Tormod, stately and generous, thy swift-handed host would arise.
Gleam of silver cups, roar of the pipes—clearly ye are your sires' worthy sons!
To land came a courier, gently and kindly (joyful to me every word that I heard),
From Dunvegan of steeds, wherein to each other respond harpers that will give a spell of each choice-worded tale.
When the heroes set the craft afloat upon the kyle, a voyage into the wind ye would ply then,
From the mast-heads aloft to the halyards below, do ye keep her close in to the wind.
Frolic in plenty is found with MacLeod, who hath decked her with green-hued satin,
From Aros of wine to the hall of silver goblets—the blessing of my king on that noble one!